Page 43 of Falling Offsides

Stupidly, Delilah’s voice echoes in my head:Maybe you like being chased by The Puckinator.

Dammit.

Damn her for always being right. Because I do, and I’m too worn out from my late night binging this goddamn book that makes me think about him non-stop. It makes me wonder too much and too hard about how he’s alwaysthereevery time I look in any direction. Like an apparition. Or worse a figment of my slutty imagination.

Worse, I find myself looking forward to our next encounter. A thrill lives inside my chest from not knowing which side of him I’m going to get—the quiet brooding caveman who communicates in scowls or this guy who shows up at my door with baked treats and the cutest puppy like it’s a completely normal thing to do.

I blink between him, the puppy, and the cake.

“Good morning,” Auguste says, totally deadpan.

My towel starts slipping from my shoulder as I stare at the squirmy ball in his arms. The puppy's got black and brown fur, one white-tipped paw, and sleepy eyes that melt every coherent thought in my brain.

“Is this your version of an apology? Bringing me a puppy?”

He lifts a shoulder. “The pup’s mine…butif you’re nice to me, I might let you cuddle him.”

“Who’s being a brat now?” I cross my arms and he chuckles—green eyes glowing brighter. “And the cake?”

His jaw ticks. “I made it.”

My mouth drops open. “You baked?”

His eyes narrow slightly, like I’m pushing it. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it’s a thing.”

A totally hot thing. A guy has never baked me a cake before.

Auguste shifts the coffee and cake into one hand, offering me the puppy. Before I take the little critter from him, I offer my hand.

“Hey there, cutie,” I whisper as the pup sniffs me, then shimmies right into my arms like he’s been mine all along.

Meanwhile, Auguste watches silently as the puppy settles against me.

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know yet…”

I glance up. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Uuh-well, I’m not good at making those sort of decisions. I mean, a name is for a lifetime…”

I consider the floppy ears and oversized paws—this little guy is going to grow into a force of nature, I can tell by the mischievous glint in his eyes when he nibbles at the beaded bracelet on my wrist—the one Delilah made me.

“Samson.”

“Like the Bible guy?”

I smirk. “Like my best friend is named Delilah, and this little guy and I are already besties too. So it fits.”

Auguste hums in deliberation and then says it once, low: “Samson.”

Then again, softer as I cradle the puppy against my chest.

“I like it,” he says, holding out the coffee to me.

I don’t argue or fight the urge to take it.

---